Stand Into Danger (25 page)

Dumaresq leaned on his table and said gravely, “It is time, gentlemen. You will leave here to prepare your boats. All I can do is wish you well. To ask for luck would be an insult to each of you.”

Bolitho tried to relax his body, limb by limb. He could not begin the action like this. Any one fault would break him in pieces, and he knew it.

He plucked the shirt away from his stomach and thought of the time he had purposefully donned a clean one, just to meet her on deck. Perhaps this was the same hopeless gesture. Unlike changing into clean clothing before a battle at sea to avoid infecting a wound, this was something personal. There would be no Bulkleys on that evil island, no one to see the purpose of his reasoning, or to care.

Dumaresq said, “I intend to lower the cutter and jolly-boat in an hour. We should be in position to drop the launch and pinnace by midnight.” His gaze moved to Bolitho. “Although it will be a harder pull for your people, your cover will be better.” He checked off the points on his strong fingers. “Make certain your muskets and pistols remain unloaded until you are sure there will be no accidents. Examine all the gear and tackle you need before you enter the boats. Talk to your people.” He spoke gently, almost caressingly. “
Talk
to them. They are your strength, and will be watching you to see how you measure up.”

Feet padded across the deck above and tackle scraped noisily along the planking.
Destiny
was heaving to.

Dumaresq added, “Tomorrow is your worst day. You will lie in hiding and do nothing. If an alarm is raised, I cannot save you.”

Midshipman Merrett tapped at the door and then called, “Mr Yeames' respects, sir, and we are hove to.”

With the cabin pitching unsteadily from side to side, it was rather unnecessary, and Bolitho was amazed to see several of those present grinning and nudging each other.

Even Rhodes, whom he knew to be worried sick about the coming action, was smiling broadly. It was that same madness returning. Perhaps it was better this way.

They moved out of the cabin and were soon swallowed up by their own groups of men.

Mr Timbrell's hoisting-party had already swayed out the jolly-boat, and the cutter followed shortly over the nettings and then into the slapping water alongside. There was suddenly no time for anything. In the enclosing darkness a few hands darted out for brief clasps, voices murmured to friends and companions, a “good luck,” or “we'll show 'em.” And then it was done, the boats wallowing round in the swell before heading away towards the island.

“Get the ship under way, Mr Gulliver.” Dumaresq turned his back on the sea, as if he had already dismissed Palliser and the two boats.

Bolitho saw Jury talking with young Merrett, and wondered if the latter was glad he was staying aboard. It was incredible to consider how much had happened in so few months since they had all come together as one company.

Dumaresq moved silently to his side. “More waiting, Mr Bolitho. I wish I could make her fly for you.” He gave a deep chuckle. “But there never was an easy way.”

Bolitho touched his scar with one finger. Bulkley had removed the stitches, and yet he always expected to feel the same agony, the same sense of despair as when he had been cut down.

Dumaresq said suddenly, “Mr Palliser and his brave fellows will be well under way by now. But I must not think of them any more. Not as people or friends, until it is over.” He turned away, adding briefly, “One day you will understand.”

14 A
M
OMENT'S COURAGE

BOLITHO attempted to rise to his feet, gripping Stockdale's shoulder for support as the
Destiny
's pinnace lifted and plunged across a succession of violent breakers. In spite of the night air and the spray which continually dashed over the gunwale, Bolitho felt feverishly hot. The closer the boat drew to the hidden island the more dangerous it became. And most of his men had thought the first part had been the worst. Being cast adrift by their parent ship and left to pull with all their might for the shore. Now they knew differently, not least their third lieutenant.

Occasionally, and now more frequently, jagged fangs of rock and coral surged past, the white water foaming amongst them to give the impression they and not the boat were moving.

Gasping and cursing, the oarsmen tried to maintain the stroke, but even that was broken every now and then as one of them had to lever his loom from its rowlock to save the blade from being splintered on a tooth of rock.

The yawing motion made thinking difficult, and Bolitho had to strain his mind to recall Dumaresq's instructions and Gulliver's gloomy predictions about their final approach. No wonder Garrick felt secure. No vessel of any size could work inshore amongst this strewn carpet of broken coral. It was bad enough for the pinnace. Bolitho tried not to think about
Destiny
's thirty-four-foot launch which was following them somewhere astern. Or he hoped it was. The extra boat was carrying Colpoys and his marksmen, as well as additional charges of gunpowder. What with Palliser's large party which had already been put ashore on the south-west of the island, and Bolitho's own men, Dumaresq was short-handed indeed. If he had to fight, he would also need to run. The idea of Dumaresq fleeing in retreat was so absurd that it helped to sustain Bolitho in some way.

“Watch out, forrard!” That was the boatswain's mate Ellis Pearse up in the bows. A very experienced seaman, he had been sounding with a boat's lead-and-line for part of the way, but was now acting as a lookout as one more rock loomed out of the darkness.

The noise seemed so great that somebody on the shore must hear them. But Bolitho knew enough to understand that the din of the sea and surf would more than drown the clatter of oars, the desperate thrusts with boat-hooks and fists to fight their way past the treacherous rocks. Had there been even a glimmer of moon it might have been different. Strangely enough, a small boat stood out more clearly to a vigilant lookout than a full-rigged ship standing just offshore. As many a Cornish smuggler had found out to his cost.

Pearse called hoarsely, “Land ahead!”

Bolitho raised one hand to show he had heard and almost tumbled headlong.

It had seemed as if the broken rocks and the mill-race of water amongst them would never end. Then he saw it, a pale suggestion of land rising above the drifting spray. Much larger close to.

He dug his fingers into Stockdale's shoulder. It felt like solid oak beneath his sodden shirt.

“Easy now, Stockdale! A little to starboard, I think!”

Josh Little, gunner's mate, growled, “Two 'ands! Ready to go!”

Bolitho saw two seamen crouching over the creaming water and hoped he had not misjudged the depth.

Somewhere astern he heard a grating thud, and then some splashing commotion of oars as the launch regained her balance. It had probably grazed the last big rock, Bolitho thought.

Little chuckled. “I'll bet that rattled the bullocks!” Then he touched the man nearest him.
“Go!”

The seaman, as naked as the day he was born, dropped over the side, hung for a few moments kicking and spitting out water, and then gasped, “Sandy bottom!”

“Easy all!” Stockdale swung the tiller-bar. “Ready about!”

Eventually, stern on to the beach, the pinnace backed water, and aided by two men gripping the gunwales surged the last few yards on to firm sand.

With the ease of a man lifting a stick from a pathway, Stockdale unshipped the rudder and hauled it inboard as the pinnace rose once again before riding noisily on to a small beach.

“Clear the boat!”

Bolitho staggered up the beach, feeling the receding surf dragging at his feet and legs. Men stumbled past him, snatching their weapons, while others waded into deeper water to guide the launch on to a safe stretch of sand.

The first seaman who had been detailed to go outboard from the pinnace was struggling to pull on his trousers and shirt, but Little said, “Later, matey! Just shift yerself up to the top!”

Somebody laughed as the dripping seaman hopped past, and again Bolitho marvelled that they could still find room for humour.

“'Ere comes the launch!”

Little groaned. “Hell's teeth! Like a pack o' bloody clergymen!” Hoisting his great belly over his belt, he strode down to the surf again, his voice lashing at the confusion of men and oars like a whip.

Midshipman Cowdroy was already clambering up a steep slope to the left of the beach, some men close at his heels. Jury remained by the boat, watching as the last of the weapons, powder and shot and their meagre rations were passed hand to hand to the shelter of the ridge.

Lieutenant Colpoys sloshed through the sand and exclaimed sharply, “In God's name, Richard, surely there must be a better way of fighting a battle?” He paused to watch his marines as they loped past, their long muskets held high to escape the spray and sand. “Ten good marksmen,” he remarked absently. “Damn well wasted, if you ask me.”

Bolitho peered up at the ridge. It was just possible to see where it made an edge with the sky. They had to get over it and into their hiding-place without delay. And they had about four hours to do it.

“Come on.” He turned and waved to the two boats. “Shove off. Good luck.”

He deliberately kept his voice low, but nevertheless the men nearest him stopped to watch the boats. Now it would be really clear to all of them. In an hour or two those same boats would be hoisted to the safety of their tier aboard
Destiny
and their crews would be free to rest, to put the tension and danger behind them.

How quickly they seemed to move, Bolitho thought. Without their extra passengers and weapons they were already fading into the shadows, outlined only occasionally by the spray as it broke over their oars.

Colpoys said quietly, “Gone.” He looked down at his mixed garb of sea officer's shirt and pair of moleskin breeches. “I'll never live this down.” Then, surprisingly, he grinned. “But still, it will make the colonel sit up and take notice when I next see him, what?”

Midshipman Cowdroy came slithering back down the slope. “Shall I send scouts on ahead, sir?”

Colpoys regarded him coldly. “I shall send two of
my
men.”

He snapped out a curt order and two marines melted into the gloom like ghosts.

Bolitho said, “This is your kind of work, John.” He wiped his forehead with his shirt-sleeve. “Tell me if I do anything wrong.”

Colpoys shrugged. “I'd rather have my job than yours.” He clapped him on the arm. “But we stand or fall together.” He glared round for his orderly. “Load my pistols and keep by me, Thomas.”

Bolitho looked for Jury but he was already there.

“Ready?”

Jury nodded firmly. “Aye, ready, sir.”

Bolitho hesitated and peered down at the small sliver of sand where they had come ashore. The surf was still boiling amongst the reefs, but even the marks of the boats' keels had been washed away. They were quite alone.

It was hard to accept that this was the same small island. Four miles long and less than two miles from north to south. It felt like another country, somewhere which when daylight came would be seen stretching away to the horizon.

Colpoys knew his trade well. Bulkley had mentioned that the debonair marine had once been attached to a line regiment, and it seemed very likely. He threw out his pickets, sent his best scouts well ahead of the rest and retained the heavier-footed seamen for carrying the food, powder and shot. Thirty men in all, and Palliser had about the same number. Dumaresq would be thankful to get his boat crews back aboard, Bolitho thought.

And yet in spite of all the preparations, the confident manner in which Colpoys arranged the men into manageable files, Bolitho had to face the fact that he was in charge. The men were fanning out on either side of him, stumbling along on the loose stones and sand and content to leave their safety to Colpoys' keen-eyed scouts.

Bolitho controlled the sudden alarm as it coursed through him. It was like being on watch that first time. The ship running through the night with only you who could change things with a word, or a cry for help.

He heard a heavy tread beside him and saw Stockdale striding along, his cutlass across one shoulder.

Without effort Bolitho could picture him carrying his body down to the boat, to rally the remaining seamen and to call for assistance. But for this strange, hoarse-voiced man he would be dead. It was a comfort to have him at his side again.

Colpoys said, “Not far now.” He spat grit from his teeth. “If that fool Gulliver is mistaken, I'll split him like a pig!” He laughed lightly. “But then, if he
is
wrong, I shall be denied that privilege, eh?”

In the darkness a man slipped and fell, dropping his cutlass and a grapnel with a clatter.

For an instant everyone froze, and then a marine called, “All quiet, sir.”

Bolitho heard a sharp blow and knew that Midshipman Cowdroy had struck the awkward seaman with the flat of his hanger. If Cowdroy turned his back during any fighting, it was unlikely he would ever live to be a lieutenant.

Bolitho sent Jury on ahead, and when he returned breathless and gasping he said, “We're there, sir.” He waved vaguely towards the ridge. “I could hear the sea.”

Colpoys sent his orderly to halt the pickets. “So far so good. We must be in the centre of the island. When it's light enough I'll fix our position.”

The seamen and marines, unused to the uneven ground and the hard march from the beach, crowded together beneath an overhanging spur of rock. It was cool and smelled damp, as if there were caves nearby.

In a matter of hours it would be a furnace.

“Post your lookouts. Then we'll issue food and water. It may be a long while before we get another chance.”

Bolitho unclipped his hanger and sat down with his back against the bare rock. He thought of his climb to the main cross-trees with the captain, his first sight of this bleak, menacing island. Now he was here.

Jury stooped over him. “I'm not sure where to post the lookouts on the lower slope, sir.”

Bolitho pushed the weariness aside and somehow lurched to his feet.

“Come with me, I'll show you. Next time, you'll know.”

Colpoys was holding a flask of warm wine to his lips and paused to watch them vanish into the darkness.

The third lieutenant had come a long, long way since Plymouth, he thought. He might be young, but he acted with the authority of a veteran.

Bolitho wiped the dust from his telescope and tried to wriggle his prone body into a comfortable position. It was early morning, and yet the rock and sand were already hot, and his skin prickled so that he wanted to tear off his shirt and scratch himself all over.

Colpoys slid across the ground and joined him. He held out a fistful of dried grass, almost the only thing which survived here in little rock crannies where the rare rainfalls sustained it.

He said, “Cover the glass with it. Any reflected light on the lens and the alarm will be raised.”

Bolitho nodded, sparing his voice and breath. Very carefully he levelled the glass and began to move it slowly from side to side. There were several small ridges, like the one which they were using to conceal themselves from enemy and sun alike, but all were dwarfed by the flat-topped hill. It shut off the sea directly ahead of his telescope, but to his right he could see the end of the lagoon and some six anchored vessels there. Schooners, as far as he could tell, pinned down by the glare, and with only one small boat cutting a pattern on the glittering water. Beyond and around them the curved arm of rock and coral ran to the left, but the opening and the channel to the sea were hidden by the hill.

Bolitho moved the glass again and concentrated on the land at the far end of the lagoon. Nothing moved, and yet somewhere there Palliser and his men were lying in hiding, marooned, with the sea at their backs. He guessed that the
San Augustin,
if she was still afloat, was on the opposite side of the hill, beneath the hill-top battery which had beaten her into submission.

Colpoys had his own telescope trained towards the western end of the island. “There, Richard. Huts. A whole line of them.”

Bolitho moved his glass, pausing only to rub the sweat from his eyes. The huts were small and crude and without any sort of window. Probably for storing weapons and other booty, he thought. The glass misted over and then sharpened again as he saw a tiny figure appear on the top of a low ridge. A man in a white shirt, spreading his arms wide and probably yawning. He walked unhurriedly towards the side of the ridge, and what Bolitho had taken to be a slung musket proved to be a long telescope. This he opened in the same unhurried fashion and began to examine the sea, from side to side and from the shore to the hard blue line of the horizon. Several times he returned his scrutiny to a point concealed by the hill, and Bolitho guessed he had sighted
Destiny,
outwardly cruising on her station as before. The thought brought a pang to his heart, a mixture of loss and longing.